


[Text] Wear something he likes.

by stillgoldie1899



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Drug Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-05
Updated: 2015-01-05
Packaged: 2018-03-05 14:01:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3122849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillgoldie1899/pseuds/stillgoldie1899
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you handle losing the man you love, while he's still right there in front of you? (Pre-show, pre-divorce Wendy/Jax)</p>
            </blockquote>





	[Text] Wear something he likes.

The water was too hot.

It was scalding her as it splashed over her, sitting on the floor of the shower, knees drawn up, letting it half-drown her, letting it burn her, willing it to wash away the last five or six hours of her life. 

She ached like she’d been beaten, like the beating she had got had been purely physical, like she’d been torn apart, ripped apart, like she’d been smashed back together, glued together with filth and alcohol and drugs, needles lodged under her skin. She could feel the needles under her skin, nails absently clawing at her thigh, unaware she was making herself bleed, the only truly visible mark left on her.

There were less visible injuries, injuries that had yet to show their faces, injuries she’d have to hide, explain away. A string of bruises around her throat like pearls, hand prints that were going to bloom black on her thighs, and just faintly at the crook of her arm, a needle mark.

And knowing all of it, knowing the truth laid bare on her skin, all she could think was  _thank god Jax is on a run_.

But, ultimately, it wouldn’t have mattered. Her marriage had spun so far out of control, so far away from her that she wasn’t sure Jax would notice if she was beaten and bleeding out on the floor of his kitchen. She wasn’t sure that his only anger at that wouldn’t be turned on her, that he wouldn’t find a way to blame her for it, that it wouldn’t somehow be her fault.

And it was her fault. She’d driven him away somehow, she’d done something wrong, she’d lost him, and she knew he was out there, right then, in the arms of some nubile young thing, fucking her if she was lucky, and if she was less so, making love to her, stealing his way into her heart only to leave her at the roadside, leaving her raw and empty and alone in the wake of him, and his fire. 

He was fire, and he’d burned her through until there was nothing left but the broken core of her, clinging to any feeling that wasn’t the pain of him. That was the worst wound- knowing that. Filled with knowing that. Brimming to the top, heart aching as badly as the rest of her, forced to face the blunt reality of how far she’d been willing to go to forget Jackson Teller.

He was never going to want her again, when the truth came out. It wasn’t a fling, or a dalliance. It wasn’t just the drugs, the lying, hiding from him. She’d paid for her escape with everything she had, and they’d been willing to take it, and she knew it was more than just a woman needing a high, and unable to pay cash for it. She knew it was about power, about taking something from her, from her husband, from his club. But she’d been so desperate, her head had gotten so loud, and they’d been so willing to take her up on it.

She lurched a bit, feeling a wave of sickness hit her, feeling their hands on her, the way they pawed and groped, ears echoing with the noises they’d pulled from her, their laughter, the names they called her.

_Junkie whore._

_Biker slut._

_Cheap bitch._

_Good little whore, keep going, take it all.  
_

_Does your husband know how you like it, slut? Does he know what you are? Tell me what you are. Say it. Louder. Scream it for me._

She only got out of the shower to be sick, tears falling unbidden, falling apart on the bathroom floor, dripping wet, sobbing, wanting to rip her insides out until she stopped feeling them in her, until she stopped seeing the face her husband would make at her- icy cold, resigned, angry. All she’d wanted was to make the sight of that face leave her head, and now he was haunting her. She couldn’t keep doing it. She had to tell him. The second he came home, she’d tell him, and deal with the fallout.

_~~~~_

_He was tired, she could tell. Worn out, and tired, and he pulled away from her too fast, pushed past her, headed for their bathroom without much more than a “Hey, babe. I’d kill for a shower.”_

_She could smell the perfume on him- some cheap dime store shit that clung to him like an eighteen year old girl with her lips wrapped around his dick. He didn’t bother to come out, eat dinner. He went right back to the clubhouse when he was washed up, and changed, and when he’d left her alone, sitting in their kitchen, never having given her a chance to tell him anything, she picked up her phone._

_[Text: D] You holding?_

_A moment later, her phone buzzed._

_[Text] What do you think?_

_[Text: D] How much?_

_[Text] Just bring that ass. I’ll think of a few ways you can pay me with it._

_[Text: D] Be there in 10._

_[Text] Wear something he likes._


End file.
